Page 169 of Sweet Venom

Epilogue One

POE

“You are the reason my demons learned to smile.” — A

No matter how many book signings I do, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to them. It still feels like I’m living a dream— one where I actually get to do what I love for a living. It still feels surreal, every single time.

I leaned back in a pink, glittering chair that looked like it had been plucked straight out of a fairy tale and took a deep breath. The scent of old pages, fresh ink, and just a hint of cupcake frosting filled the air. Around me, between rows of perfectly imperfect soft pink shelves, the soft murmur joyful voices blended with the occasional laugh or the whisper of a turning page. I was sitting right in the heart of a little gem of a bookstore called Reading on Cloud 9.

It’s a brand-new spot nestled here in Montana, owned by none other than Azariel’s cousin, Ella Banning. She and her husband opened it just a month ago, and now she asked me to host a book signing here. I didn’t hesitate to say yes.

The store is a love letter to her children, blending dreamy celestial themes with a playful and flirty cowboy twist—like someone stitched together the stars and the Wild West with pink thread and sprinkle of glitter. It’s not exactly my style, but it sure is stunning. Magical, too. Just like Ella and the beautiful life she created with her husband, Shaw and her two kids.

The walls were lined from floor to ceiling with romance books—some crisp and new, others gently worn with cracked spines and folded corners. Above us, golden-pink light spilled from whimsical overhead lamps shaped like clouds and stars, casting a warm, magical glow over the entire space. The bookstore was the kind of place that made you want to never leave. To lose yourself in it. To believe just for a second, that you’d stepped into another world— and maybe, if you were lucky, you could stay.

I could hear the soft murmur of conversation from a group of women gathered in the corner, each one a bookworm in the truest sense, their eyes alight with the magic and happiness that only words can bring.

Some of them clutched their favorite books to their chests, holding them the way you might hold something sacred, something that had once saved you. Others were already flipping through pages with reverent fingers, as if afraid to disturb the magic sleeping between the lines. Watching them filled me with joy.

It was humbling, really— seeing how words I’d once written in the night, when I wasn’t sure anyone would ever read them, now meant so much to these women. It’s magical how stories could connect us, how they made strangers feel seen, made the world a little less lonely… it reminded me why I started writing in the first place.

These women and young girls were more than just readers—they were my people. My family, not by blood, but by heart. Theyhad fallen in love with the worlds I created, lived alongside my characters, and now here they were, standing in front of me, full of excitement and curiosity, asking questions I never get tired of hearing.

I smiled as one of them stepped forward— Beverly, according to the strawberry-shaped name tag pinned proudly to her green dress. She asked a question I’d been asked countless times before, but it was the way she asked it with wide and hopeful eyes that made it feel brand new all over again.

“So, Poe,” she said, her voice soft but full of curiosity, “does your love life mirror what you write in your books? Is it as darkly magical as the romances in your stories?”

I let out a soft laugh, my gaze drifting to my husband, standing at the back of the shop, his arms crossed as he leaned against a pink shelf, watching me with that intense gaze that sets my soul on fire every time. A small smile tugged at the corners of my lips as I thought back to the years before I had met him—when the love I wrote about seemed so out of my reach.

Before Azariel, before everything that had shifted between us, I didn’t know if love could ever be as the kind I wrote about. Even though I knew it existed because of my parents, I just didn’t believe it was for me. But now? Now it was more than I had ever dreamed and hoped for.

I glanced back at Beverly, my smile widening. “Well…” I began, my voice soft, “I used to think that love like the kind I wrote about wasn’t possible for me. I was a cynic and love’s number 1 hater. But then… I was proven wrong. A dark and grumpy prince proved me wrong.” I paused, feeling love and happiness spread through me as I looked at Azariel, my heart swelling with pride. “And now, my life? My love? It’s better than anything I ever wrote.”

Beverly’s eyes sparkled as she smiled at me, the others giggled like sweet schoolgirls. Love did that to us. I didn’t needto say more. They could see it in the way I looked at my husband, the way he looked at me with an intensity that made everything else fade away.

It was always us— just us.

It wasn’t just the big things—the grand gestures or the flashy declarations he did. It was the quiet moments between us, the way we had found shelter in each other’s hearts, the way he had held me through my fears, anxiety and my dreams. The way he had loved me even before I knew I was worthy of it. He loved me even when he didn’t love himself.

That’s why he owned my heart and always will.

Azariel pushed off from the shelf and made his way toward me, his heavy footsteps echoing softly through the bookstore. He leaned down to kiss the top of my head, and I felt all his love and devotion in just one kiss. His tattooed hand rested on my lower back, possessive and protective, a silent reminder that I was his—and he, mine. He always did that, even when no one was watching it.

A teenage girl smiled at us knowingly, her gaze flicking between the two of us.

“I cantellhe looooves you,” she said, dragging out the word with a dreamy sigh. “It’s so real. I want one ofhim.”

Then she turned to Azariel with mock seriousness.

“Where can I find one like you, sir?”

I laughed when I saw Azariel’s expression—mildly horrified, completely unprepared for the sweet girl’s attention. It was obvious she’d caught him off guard. Her name tag readStella, and she beamed at us like we were her favorite romance come to life.

As I reached for his hand, my eyes caught on his ring finger. The black wedding band was there, but just beneath it, inked on his skin in dark script, was my name.

I had the same tattoo on my ring finger too, with his name. I got the tattoo the day we got married.

We got married in a place that felt like us and our love. The ceremony was held in an old black castle in Romania, tucked high in the mountains and shrouded in mist, like something spooky and forgotten by time. It had been small and deeply personal—just our parents, my brothers Cassian and Vade, and his little sister Raiza. Even our cats had been there, curled on blue velvet chairs, grumpy witnesses to the start of our forever.

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